


Mirrors and masks

by Residesatshamecentral



Series: Reflections [2]
Category: SS-GB (TV)
Genre: Dream Sequence, Huth has, Nazi Punching, Unrequited Love, a massive Oeidipus complex, and serious personal problems, gratious metaphors, implied nucliar war, mentions of torture, one sided Archer/Huth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 22:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Residesatshamecentral/pseuds/Residesatshamecentral
Summary: Huth is trapped inside himself. Archer is the man he would like to reach out to.. Companion piece to 'Masks and Mirrors.'





	1. Dead heart

The first thing, as Huth understood it, was that Germany as it _should_ have been had no further hope.

When brutality wins out, he reasoned, that leaves the individual. The self being all that mattered, it was logical to choose the winning side. He had always aimed to be on the winning team, since the harsh lessons of his boyhood taught him the price of mediocrity. It would never have occurred to him to ask himself if he liked the team itself. In Huth’s mind, success and personal comfort were incompatible. In success itself there would be satisfaction.  One day. That was worth sacrificing comfort for.

And so, he ended up in SS uniform.

And so, he left rooms where battered bodies dripped blood onto concrete floors.

And so, he ordered executions, not looking away from the eyes of the mothers, not refusing to hear the words screamed at him, edged with blood. He would not be weak enough to turn away from his surroundings. This was his work now. His work had a price.

And he felt something die in himself. And he felt something decay in himself. And he carried on.


	2. Elusion

Archer was a rare enigma.

He had selected the best and most active detective from the Scotland Yard records, commandeered  him as an assistant and prepared for a lengthy side-project of intimidation against a very resentful and defiant British native.

But instead he got Archer.

Huth had one talent he had never doubted in himself, the talent for seeing clearly peoples feelings and motivations. But he could sense that something in Archer was eluding him. There was defeat in the lines of his body, and fear, but the subliminal defiance he usually got with the English simply  did not register. Was this, he wondered a sign of a coward, a depressive, a collaborator or something dangerous?

So he studied the man.

Passivity is like water. Archer allowed intimidation tactics to pass through without a mark. He obeyed orders smoothly, deflecting threats with humour, never refusing to meet Huths eye and never once showing any sign of rebellion. The small barbs Huth habitually tossed at the world became sharper as he sought a reaction. The infuriatingly smooth mask barely twitched. A bare glimpse of emotion here and there, like the flick of a tail among the weeds. Perhaps what lurked in the still waters was a pike. Perhaps not.

Deep inside, a spark of hope flared like a candle flame in shadowy dim of Huth’s emotional deadland. He had not had a real challenge since killing the last few American spies in the SS. Here perhaps was an enemy of quality.


	3. Burnt-out tigers

It was depression, he decided, and disappointment settled like dust within him. Archer had great potential, but he was sedated by depression. That was all. Most likely a combination of his wife’s death, the occupation and the millstone of responsibility for his son.

And it could have been so _interesting_.

Huth began to wonder, watching Archer, if the man himself was even aware of his own emotional state. At every turn he would crack a weak joke, generally while under visible stress. Jokes, thought Huth, are a form of resistance, but also a shield between the person and the problem. Shields are for cowards, but Archer was more…evasive than cowardly.

Archer was too afraid to face the world head-on. If he faced reality, he would have to act and if he had to act, he would have to takes sides then, wouldn’t he? And which side could he reasonably take, with a motherless eight-year old in tow? The man was treading water. Well, that could not last forever. Nor should it.

Huth was not given to introspection for the same reasons that a person with a murdered body buried in the garden is not given to digging up the flowerbeds. But on some level he was aware that his irritation with Archers passivity was causing him to goad the man. It was like working at a loose tooth.

Springer would say it was undisciplined of him. Dangerous too. If he had a beaten enemy here, why not let sleeping dogs lie? He considered this. He turned his back on it.

The urge that led him on came from something at the root of Huth. Deep in his nature there was a love of activity and a loathing of apathy as untrainable as the hunting instinct of a cat. Tied up with it was the maddening image of what Archer could have been. Should have been. It was like seeing a tiger drugged into docility. The urge to kick some life into the beast overwhelmed any caution that had been drummed into him.

Of course,  if you kicked the tiger often enough, it would come for you.


	4. Flickers and flames

He had to laugh. He tasted blood in his mouth. And he had to laugh.

The corpse was limp on the wall, a scarecrow, tarred and feathered like a bad joke and it was apparently enough to punch an SS officer over.

It was the last thing he had expected. He had thought, _the wretch will stammer and stutter and blame me_. He had thought _he does not understand these terrorists at all, he thinks the bastards are heroes…perhaps he will be surprised into criticizing our regime_. He had thought _go on, cry, Archer._

He had never once thought _he will punch me_.

It was the most honest reaction he had gotten yet.

He spat out the blood and talked through the rage, aware all the time of a heady triumph somewhere inside. Normally he would kill over this. Normally.


	5. Damage limitation

Question one: When you set a fire, are you responsible for the outcome? Question two: Should you give a damn about the outcome if you are?

Huth found time to ponder one evening, reading over a report and considering the implications of Archers most recent lies to him. He begun to keep a list of Archer’s lies, dated and ranked in order, with implications written in pencil beside each.

Huth’s emotional life was a fairly blank one, but he would normally expect to feel triumph over all this. Amusement. Something anyway. All he felt was a strange, distant regret. An apprehension, even. Why?

He had wondered if he had found a tiger he could hunt. When he had found the beast was sleeping, he had – against all logic - kicked it awake. And the result was almost pitiable. Not only was Archer a terrible liar, he genuinely seemed to think he stood a chance of winning. It was like fighting a sock puppet.

It was funny. Huth took a sip of the whiskey. It was funny, but why did something twinge in him? It had twinged  the same way once during a skirmish. He had watched a young recruit stagger into firing range. A boy no more than eighteen, deafened and disoriented by a small blast. The enemy had risen behind him from the barricades. The boy had no idea. Oblivious to the threat. To oncoming death. And then his body had danced grotesquely with the impact of the bullets. He cared. That was the truth of it. For whatever reason, Archer was not an irrelevant casualty to him.

He thought over strategies by which he might limit the damage:

 _Strategy 1. Pure intimidation_. Having woken Archer up, he could not easily put him back in his box again. It would work on a coward, but that was not what Archer was.

 _Strategy 2. Arresting Archer to protect him._ It would only work if there were a pretext, one that would see him leave custody with minimum physical and mental damage. Few pretexts would work. He would most likely end up  in a concentration camp.

 _Strategy 3. Seize the boy as collateral._ No. stupid. Fear for his son would keep Archer quiet in the short term. In the long term, he would just awake a vendetta against himself. He needed to turn  Archer to his own use. Which led him to…

 _Strategy four. Bring Archer on-side_. Now that was an idea he could get behind.

 _And you have been toying with the hope for some time really haven't you?_ Whispered a treacherous little voice in the back of Huths skull. _Bring him to to your side and keep him there. Because_ … Huths jaw tightened imperceptibly at the admission… _you have had more than enough of your fellow Nazi to last a lifetime. Because Archer is exactly the sort of man you like. Even though he hates you. Because you are so bloody lonely really, are you not, Oskar?_

The sun set. The last of the light slowly faded from the gloomy London skies. In the dim of the office, the blinds cast their shadows on the walls. Huth toyed with a pen and a notepad. His figure was very upright, almost motionless. Apart from the slight movements of the arms and fingers, he was perfectly still, like the living statues now banned from Covent Market.

Carrot and stick. Fear on one side, selfishness on the other. Hint, insinuate, what he knew of Archer’s activities. Use a delicate touch, for the fear. Then, the offer of power. Of money. Of a future for the boy. Of comparative freedom. Of the fear and respect of his fellow man.

It would work.

The shadows lengthened.


	6. Losses

Springer was dead.

He had watched the life leave the eyes of his friend. He had smelt the blood Springer coughed up, wiped it off his cheek. He got drunk in the darkness of his office.

His mind wheeled slowly through dissconected images as he worked through the bottle. His father’s face. It was one of the darker grudges of his life that he outdid him every day, then looked in the mirror every day and saw his father’s expression. He thought of Springers eyes, those last few moments. The blank fear and rage there as he convulsed on the stretcher. The copper tang of blood had been so strong in his nostrils. Why had there been fear in Springer’s eyes? It was all wrong. He had seen the man take a bullet without flinching. There was something deeply amiss with the universe, if Springer faced death with fear. His shit of a father had hated fear in other people. Ah. What a very particularly male tragedy, to hate the man and turn into him. Hate him, every single day. And turn into him. He needed to get much more drunk.

Archers appearance was welcome. There was a self-contained purpose to his movements now and the glances he cast at Huth were less fearful, more calculating. He ordered the man to stay, aware with a sort of bitter levity that only an order would make Archer keep him company. How had he ever thought Archer a collaborator? Collaborators curry favor by insinuating themselves into conquerors lives. Archer would always have politely fled this situation, at any stage of their relationship, if allowed to.

Huth talked. He barely remembered, later, what he talked about, only that he opened up. The dark memories unfolded from the cells of his mind and made the office colder. His captive audience listened quietly. There was nothing prying in his manner. When he spoke, it had the quality of an echo. He seemed to reflect Huth somehow, when he talked. It was the mark of a good listener.

When he asked about the Project, Huth had a vision of himself as Archer must see him. Driven and solitary. Powerful,  hungry. Upwardly mobile. Archer was restrained by the civilised illusions that stopped him from realising ambition and self-belief. And he could see far enough into Huth to know  that he was not. Could see the hunger for greatness. And the lack of restraint to that hunger.

He smiled at the image of himself, and looked up at the man perched on the edge of his desk. How outwardly fragile he was. Like a bird.

Huths affections for people were not exactly human. Affection, for him, was based in love of the qualities he valued. Looking up, drunkenly, he saw the fragile body and the knife-like mind. Saw the spring of concealed rage and the calculated caution controlling that spring. And Archer could see him. See part of him anyway. It meant a lot, being seen. Pity he was such a bad liar.

He made his offer. Later, he would castigate himself for being drunk. For letting his emotions run away with him. For _touching_ Archer like that. But it was so cold. Springer was dead. He was alone. Again. He was drunk. The shadows closed in from the corners of the walls and gunfire sounded just out of hearing. Perhaps he touched Archer to check he was alive. In the cold, among the ashes, he needed to know there was another heart beating.

There was. The other man’s arm was warm. Huth’s affection went out like a whip, freed by loss. He was hard, but he was human and while he had gone through the fire he still needed something to love. He could love Archer. He could.

And the answer was no.


	7. Ashes

Archers eyes were a wall of black glass.

He argued. He refused to analyse the offence he felt. And the answer was no.

Alone, he put his head back and sank into luxurious despair. So tonight was the night his last solid ground was taken from him was it? He had had faith in his abilities to manipulate people. He had thought he understood motivation. And he was presented with the species of stupidity he had envied and thought gone from the world.

So Archer had taken the high road had he? Picked idealism. Picked loyalty. Picked faith in a country long flattened and defeated. A country that would never know or care. A country that would chew him and spit him out, to die under the jackboot of Nazism.

He had picked the high road. So what must he think of Huth?

He got as drunk as he possibly could.

In the murky dark, thoughts swam, mixing with half-formed dreams. Ash fell from skies darkened with clouds by a bomb that could wipe out worlds. Beyond the windows of the empty office, a petrified forest grew, grey trunks stained with black. Sharp cries broke the silence and torches lit up the distance as search parties hunted something through the night and he was one of them, in his long coat, now leaping from roof to roof in a bombed-out city, watching the hunters from a distance, great troops in black uniforms, a swarm of ants spread across the wasteland. There he was. So frail even from a distance, fleeing toward the horizon, where the jungle was reclaiming its own, fleeing for the undergrowth where the roots and the dark would hide him. Fleeing, across the bleak wasteland where the pittiless hunters pursued. He was better than them.

 _Run you fool_ , whispered Huth and fell into the pit of sleep.


End file.
